


Colors and Elements

by HandwithQuill



Category: A-Team (2010)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 18:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HandwithQuill/pseuds/HandwithQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murdock finds a box of Colored Pencils</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Murdock sat at the table in the kitchen. He had folded a piece of cardboard and stuck in under the leg to keep it from wobbling. The house was nowhere near as nice as the houses that Face usually scammed for them. It was run down and had been abandoned for quite some time, but no one blamed the conman, as it was needed on extreme short noticed. The case they had just finished had gone bad. The guy they were taking down called the Army on them, and they barely got way from the MP's.

When they got here, Hannibal had assigned everybody jobs, telling Murdock the stay there. B.A. had returned an hour ago, but hadn't come out of the garage. When the Colonel and Face had returned they had disappeared upstairs. He gently lifted his leg and rested it on the next chair, being careful not to jolt the splint he was wearing. In looking around, he had found a ratty, beaten up box of colored pencils. Most were missing, but there was enough for him. He straightened the paper in front of him and picked up the first pencil and held the point at eye level. 

Orange was underrated as a color. How many people said that it was their favorite color? Everyone judging it at first appearance and not taking the time to get to know it. He put the tip to paper, drew a box, and slowly started to color it in. It was a tricky color, orange. He kinda understood what they meant. It was harsh, intimidating, and didn’t seem very friendly. But he knew, if you took the time, you could find the good part. The part that was dependable, warm, protective. Like fire. With out fire, man would never have survived. Once it was lit, a fire would burn until it died. Providing heat to cook on, light to see by and to scare away dangers. 

He put down the orange and picked up two others. Next to the orange box he drew a black rectangle, then colored a red stripe across it. 

Putting those three back into the box, he grabbed the next. A smile sparkling in his eyes, as he drew a steady circle on the paper. Stopping when he could just see the yellow on the white paper. If orange was tricky, yellow was deceptive. He drew a neck and chest. People thought yellow was a happy color. It was bright, airy, it was the color of sunlight, of daisy, of smiley faces, of happy little chicks made of marshmallow. 

The pilot knew, thought, that was what it wanted people to think. He knew that it had a hidden side. A side that wasn't all that light and airy. It was the color of caution, of warning. If you were unaware, it could dazzle you, leave you blinking, gasping for breath, not realizing what had happened for hours, thinking, wondering if it had really happened. He added a fish tail to the chest, and lightly colored the whole thing in. 

Exchanging the yellow for the next pencil, he gave the drawing eyes. Two bright, piercing blue eyes. Then he drew a wide circle around the figure and gave the merman a watery home. He relaxed, shoulders slumping, head leaning forward and to the side, as he colored. Blue was a nice color. It exuded calm, a soothing presence, comforting. It was reassuring, like fire it was always there when it was needed. But like fire's enemy, water, it was fluid. Bending, flowing, changing, going with the lay of the land, going where it willed, until finality, it came to an unmovable object, and decided, 'No, I'm not going around'. Then it cut through the mountain, making it's own path, uncaring of what was thought, bringing those it thought was worthy along for a wide ride. 

It could be dangerous. Rolling in, sweeping away anything in it's path, keeping everything and everyone safe. Commanding and commanding respect, which was easy to give, as it gave it right back.

He sat up, looking at the picture. Something was missing. He drew a larger merman hovering over the pond and gave him a trident. He put down the blue pencil, frowning. It was better, still wasn't right, but he didn't know how to fix it. With a fingertip, he caressed the blue and yellow figures. 

They looked good together, like they belonged. The colors complemented each other. What each was missing the other had in full supply. Filling in all the gaps, leaving no room for anything else. His eyes darted to the stairs as a noise drifted down them. He closed his eyes, swallowed, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. 

With his eyes still closed, he reached out for the last pencil. He harshly jabbed it onto the paper and moved it around. Cracking his eyes, he snorted. Green. Some thought it was a good color. The color of life, growing things, of newness. Of health and harmony, he snorted again. But he knew the truth. Green was a horrible color. It was the color of greed, of lust, of envy. More sounds drifted downstairs, he pushed so hard the tip broke. Using the jagged point left he continued coloring.

It was the color of the canopy rushing up towards him. It was the color of the branches smashing against the cockpit, jarring the yoke out of his hands. It was the color of the copilots face just before he splatters his stomach contents across the instrument panel. It was the color of the algae growing on the tree trunk the plane came to rest on. It was the color that filled his vision as he turned his head and saw the tree branch protruding from the copilot’s chest. It was the color of the smoke from the rescue flare, a rescue that didn't come for three weeks. And by then it was the color of what was left of the crew.

He threw the pencil down, staring disgustedly at the green airplane he had drawn. 'No, ' he thought, 'Green was not a good color.'


	2. Elements

The porch swing was not on a porch. It was hanging between two trees on the edge of the back yard. They had spent a week in the abandoned house. Hannibal not letting them leave for too long, wanting to make sure the MP's were gone. Finally, he let Face leave long enough to arrange someplace else to go. Murdock didn't know if Face was making up for the abandoned house, but the house he managed to get was opulent. Three stories, four bedrooms, three full baths, dinning room, professional kitchen, study filled with books, and the garage was an out building full of parts with all the tool necessary to make them into a car. 

The back yard was massive. The pilot would have enough room to land a jet in the area not taking up by the in ground pool, a play set that rivaled an elementary school, and the grilling area. He shifted on the swing, keeping his left leg still. His right was planted on the ground, pushing off whenever the swing slowed too much. Hannibal had said that the splint could come off in a few days. He was glad, he hand been grounded too long. His head had been tilted back, watching the sky. They weren't close enough to be inundated by the noise, but with a small airport nearby, the sky was constantly filled with aircraft. 

Catching sight of Face sunning himself next to the pool, he sighed. Reaching down, he placed his hand on the cargo pocket of his shorts, the paper inside crinkling as he caressed it. He had kept the drawing on him at all times. A reminder of things he didn't want to be reminded of. A splash drew his attention back to the pool. Hannibal had come out and was swimming laps. Face sat up to watch. He watched him watch the colonel. 

That night, he didn't know how long he sat staring at the drawling. Thoughts, feelings, colors, tumbling, twining, revolving in his head, until he didn't know the original from the meshed. He had started violently at the hand on his shoulder. 

“Everything alright, Captain?” His eyes traveled down, one, two, three, then back up three, two, one along the Colonel's abdomen, straight through the forest of still salt and pepper hair covering the pectorals to meet hypnotizing blue eyes. He stepped behind the pilot and brought his other hand to rest on Murdock's left shoulder. He squeezed gently and let the balls of his thumbs massage the tension between Murdock's shoulder blades. 

Murdock wanted, needed to relax back into the calming, reassuring, heartening strength behind him, but didn't dare. He knew that when green earth sank into the blue water it became mud. Squishy, slimy, smelly mud, that turned the clear blue into a brackish brown, making it dirty and impure. So he sat up straighter, away from that centering touch. 

“Right as rain on the plane, sir!” with one last squeeze, the water receded, leaving the mud behind, exposed. He jumped at another touch on his right shoulder. 

“You sure you're alight, buddy?” Face asked kneeling down, smiling. Murdock clenched his fists to keep them still. They wanted to reach out, whisper down the nose, across the cheekbone, up around the ear, and trail down the jaw to rest against the mouth the was glowing.  
After the water receded, the mud was left to the light. Slowly, surely the light would dry out the top layer, making it stable, making it useable, making it palatable to others. Over time it would pierce deeper, fixing more and more layers.

“You were staring at the paper as if you wanted to set it on fire.”

“Can't do that, Face. Fire is in the garage.” but it was a good idea. Fire would dry out the mud much quicker. It wasn't afraid, tiptoeing around. It would blaze up, throwing heat wildly. Flames licking out, making itself be heard. But sometimes it forgot itself, and accidentally left scorch marks on the earth when it was done, retreating before it realized. 

“If you're sure you’re alright. You know where to find me if you aren't” Face had gave him a confused smile. Trailing his hand up into Murdock's shaggy hair, he stood, pressed a kiss into the brown mop and walked back upstairs. 

A yell returned his thoughts to the present. Hannibal had pulled Face into the pool. The sun was high in the sky, so he grabbed the crutches that Hannibal insisted that he still use and hobbled into the house.  
** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **  
A week later, he was laying on his stomach in the king sized bed in his room. His legs swinging freely, the weight of the splint no longer holding one down. The bed jostled as Face flopped down on his left. 

“We should have a job in a couple of days.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Hannibal said from his other side. “How are you at the controls of a Sikorky S-70?”

“What kind!” he sat up eagerly. “A Seahawk, Firehawk or a Blackhawk?” Hannibal blinked.

“I …believe it was a Firehawk.” 

“A S-70c! I’ve never flown one of them. They’re close to the HH-60, UH-60 and MH-60 I flew in the army. Now if you could get me into the cockpit of a VH-60N Whitehawk, well that would be just cool!” In his excitement about the helicopter, he didn’t notice what the other two were doing. It wasn’t until a flutter of fabric flying across the room caught his attention and Face’s bare chest pressed to his back, the conman’s hands drifting up to play with his nipples that he became aware of what was going on. Hannibal’s hand cupped his cheek, thumb rubbing against his lips. 

“It’s nice to see your smile, James. It’s been far too long since we’ve seen it.”

“What…how…um…no, I don’t… you can’t!”

“We’ve seen you watching us.” Face said, placing kisses up and down the pilot’s neck. “We want you too.”

‘No, this wasn’t right.’ He thought even as he swallowed hard as Hannibal pulled off his own shirt. He struggled to get out of Face’s hold, pressing himself back against the headboard. It couldn’t be right. The light played on the water, entwined, became one sparkling entity. It ignored the hard packed earth as it reflected off of it, looking for someone else to dazzle. And water lapped at the riverbank, rushing passed, sometimes pulling the earth along then depositing on the shore again. Always moving, never staying, striving to find the light. 

“Hey, hey, hey, what’s wrong?” hands in his hair, caressing, calming. Another bigger, rougher hand on the back of his neck.

“James, deep breaths, look at us.” He peeked up at them. 

“You can’t want me.”

“What do you mean, HM?”

“It-it’s not-it’s not right for you to want me! It can’t be right!” they traded looks. 

“How is it not right, Captain?” Murdock raised a fisted hand to his head.

“You two are right. You belong. I’m not, I don’t. I’m broken.” His hand moved to hit the side of his head. It never made contact, his wrist was grasped, restrained in the Colonel’s strong hold. 

“Never say that again. You belong here, with us.” His eyes searched Hannibal’s. Taking in all the emotions flowing through them. Judging, assessing the truthfulness. He didn’t really doubt it, the boss had never lied to him. But he had a hard time believing it. 

“Please, HM,” Face asked, his hands now cupping Murdock’s face. “Let us show you?” He pressed his lips to the pilot’s. 

“Believe us, James.” Hannibal said taking Face’s place. He nodded.

Hands, mouths, tongues, moved across his skin. Pulling sounds out of his throat he didn’t know he could make. Kisses were given, traded, denied and fought over. Fingers touched, caressed, lingered and trailed over every inch of him. Making him feel things he thought were forbidden to him. 

Afterwards, he lay with his back pressed tightly to Hannibal's chest, and Face's chest plastered against his, the earth trapped betwixt the water and the air.

“We're a sandwich bag!” He laughed into Face's neck. He felt them lift their heads a little, exchanging a look.

“How's that Captain?” Hannibal's voice rumbled against his back

“Well, everyone knows that blue and yellow make green!”


End file.
